Siegyrd opened his eyes to indigo darkness. The hint of light revealed that he was inside, though he had no idea where. A soft rug was beneath him, and a blanket of wool draped him. His joints cracked as he forced himself up from his side into a half sitting position. He popped his neck and rubbed it. He blinked through the haze of night and odd sleep. The room was vague shapes and angles. Fragments of pale blue light spilled through a far wall through slats. He rose and almost fell as his limbs remembered how to stand. Then he recalled how to walk, the flood of sensations, even in the darkness, jarring and overwhelming after his long slumber.

He reached the light and saw it to be a window, bulwarked against the night. He fumbled around until he found a latch the raised the shutters, and pale moonlight flooded the room with ethereal glow. It was a sitting room that he only distantly remembered, as of some half-forgotten dream. There was a fireplace, though cold, some chairs, a long couch, and a body. The moonlight revealed Aerendir’s form, on his back, hands folded across his stomach.

Siegyrd moved to it and knelt at his brother’s side. “Aerendir.” His voice was choked with long disuse. He cleared his throat which brought back some of his normal timbre, “Brother.” He touched the body and found it cold, very cold, and relief crossed his face. “I suppose I made it back first.” He looked around again and noticed the greatsword, mounted to the wall above the fireplace. Its blade was clean and clear, gleaming faintly in the nighttime lights.

Siegyrd sighed heavily, shifted his weight back, and sat next to Aerendir. He stretched his arms and shoulders and felt a wave of exhaustion. He crawled toward the longer couch and pulled himself up onto it. He settled in on his back and took a similar pose to his brother, closed his eyes and whispered a prayer as he sought fresh sleep, “Thank you, Apeiron.”

#

“Mareth!” Mathin’s voice carried through the morning light and up the stairs into the guest compartments.

Siegyrd heard and lifted his head. He opened his eyes to see Mathin staring wide-eyed at him. Siegyrd spoke softly, “Good morning, Mayor.”

Mathin laughed then stopped of a sudden, “I wasn’t sure you would wake.” A look almost of anger flashed across his face, but Siegyrd ignored it. He had not expected a warm welcome.

“Awake I did, though, Aerendir it seems has not. How long?”

A stout, well-built man came into the room wearing simple pants and a linen jerkin that was open at the chest showing good strong musculature. Siegyrd blinked at him, then gawked, “Marwolaeth?”

Mathin looked back at Mareth, and the two men smiled knowingly. Mareth, spoke up first, “Had to find some way to kill the time with you two getting your beauty rest.”

“You’ve almost no softness left,” Siegyrd said, though he corrected himself, “except perhaps in the eyes.”

Mareth smiled the kind of smile a mischievous boy smiles when he’s caught, but you love him for it. “I’ve learned a lot in the months you’ve been gone.”

Siegyrd gulped, “It took that much.” He sat up completely and swung his feet to the floor facing away from the other two.

“I imagine it had something to do with your invocation? Aeternum Rasa, it was?” Mareth said, all his curiosity unabated by his hard-earned strength.

“Her words,” Mathin said with a fleeting spark of sadness.

“You saw.” Siegyrd said, “There’s not much more to explain.”

Mareth pressed, “But what is it? What was that statue? What kind of magic is it? It is nothing the Dinistrwyr ever taught.”

“It was not theirs to teach.” Siegyrd said. “Nor is it mine.” He looked at Aerendir’s still form on the ground. He had been tucked into place as a center piece to the room, the furniture was arranged around him.

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It was Mathin’s turn to press, “You must know something. Can she be brought back!? Mareth told me what she became.”

“We’ve been studying the statue in the gallery as well. Though I have no understanding of it even after nigh half a year.” Mareth’s boyish excitement leaked through.

“It is not a song I know. I provided accompaniment only. With two it can be survived. Had he been alone, he would not be in soulsleep, he would be ash.” Siegyrd’s voice was strained.

Mareth spoke, “Ash?”

A look of pleading came over Siegyrd’s face as he glanced upward at the wizard, “I know no more.” Then his face went blank, kind of vacant. His eyes stared into the distance.

Mareth and Mathin looked at each other and Mareth stepped forward to place his hand on Siegyrd’s shoulder. He spoke softly, “Siegyrd?”

The albino man with his shining silver hair and silver eyes blinked and shook his head, some semblance of clarity returning, “I am sorry, Mareth. It will be some time before I have fully returned. I can still hear Aerendir’s lifesong though, and it grows. He should return soon.”

“Shall we go for a run?” Mathin smiled almost wickedly.

Mareth flashed a look, but it was Siegyrd who responded, “Perhaps a walk to start. I do not yet remember how to run.” He played the word on his tongue as a child when he discoveres a new word and savors it, “Run, run, run.”

#

Mareth had run this pathway dozens of times now, perhaps hundreds, often multiple times a day. To walk it was somewhat strange. The soft light between the autumn leaves which were late winter and early spring when he had begun his training, seemed gentle, as if it cradled the three as they walked, supporting them here, comforting them there.

“When he wakes, we’ll have to make our way.” Siegyrd said.

Mathin questioned, “We may have some leads on the flute my wife spoke of. I know what it looks like at least, and we have tried to gather stories from anyone who passed through town. I would hear it again.” His voice became somewhat distant with longing as he looked up at the sky through the leaves.

Mareth spoke, “And there are refugees from a distant land where they say a dragon has been settling in. Both the tales of the flute and the dragon are from the same direction – southeast. Further inland from the coast, much further.”

“They traveled far in wagons and on foot. Some moved along to the walled town of Tivaer where the proclaimed king offers protection. Some of his people have passed through toward the southeast, hunting parties they looked, though none have returned.” Mathin chimed in.

“Anything strange in the stories?” Siegyrd said.

“Strange?” Mareth tilted his head.

“Out of place. Different from the typical legends of dragons you have heard?”

Mareth spoke, “There are not many tales of dragons left, Siegyrd. Sightings are fewer and fewer in the last generation. Until I met you and your brother, they were only stories. Always distant things. It’s what made my research so engaging.”

“Hmm” Siegyrd mused then continued, “how about anything that just seemed silly or ridiculous, perhaps made you laugh?”

“Nothing like that comes to mind,” Mareth mused.

“Southeast alone isn’t much to go on.” Siegyrd said.

Mathin spoke up, “Perhaps not, but staying here won’t get you anywhere.”

Siegyrd, “I can move Aerendir with us. You’ve been far more than generous, Mayor.”

“As I told your wizard friend, I have a vested interest in your success. My Zaralai’s sacrifice will be granted meaning only if you succeed. Otherwise. I will have you all killed.” His voice was flat and toneless, no humor or anger, just fact.

Siegyrd simply nodded.

Mareth laughed nervously.

“Until your brother wakes,” Mathin said with a winning grin, “You are welcome to stay, and to train. Whatever the path forward might be, I expect added strength won’t be wasted.”

“We are grateful.”

#

The autumn leaves had given way to denuded trees and the first gray-silver of frost before Aerendir awoke. When he did he was greeted by a warm air and the sounds of three men speaking between the crackling of flames. As he sat up, they stopped. He could hear, but could not yet see, staring around blankly at vague, dark shapes.

“Brother!” Siegyrd’s voice leaped with joy as he moved directly to Aerendir’s side and place his hand on his upper back. “Brother, breathe deeply.”

Aerendir obeyed and took a broad inhale which he held for a few moments before painfully pressing it out of his lungs. His vision snapped back and he could see Siegyrd’s face, and Mareth and Mathin sitting in nearby chairs in the dancing light of a roaring fireplace.

His deep voice seemed filled with gravel, “Never has the return been so bad.”

“We survived by fractions, and by Apeiron’s mercy I am sure.” Siegyrd said.

Aerendir raised one of his hands with difficulty, his muscles shaking at the exertion, and he stared at it. “A song of returns might aid.”

Siegyrd nodded and left to retrieve something.

“Good evening, Queenslayer,” Mathin said, most of his anger and sorrow emptied so long since his loss, but there were the hinted remains in his voice.

Aerendir looked up, his stunning silvery eyes boring into Mathin who could not help but look away. Aerendir’s booming bass responded low, “You don’t know how right that title is, friend. She was not merely your queen, but the last of the queens of dragonkin. Zaralai Vox Niki – the beautiful voice of victory.” With great struggle he sat up and transitioned to his knees and bowed before Mathin, almost prostrating himself. “I extend my deepest sympathies for your loss. I ask not for forgiveness, only the staying of your hand long enough for us to set the world aright.”

Mareth began to speak, but Mathin jumped in first, “We are of the same mind then. Good.”

Aerendir rose unsteadily, and Mathin reached out to help him just as Siegyrd entered with his violin.

“Any requests?” Siegyrd said, as he pulled his bow from the surrounding air and prepared to play.

“Is it not just a spell anyway?” Mareth said, “What does it matter?”

Siegyrd shook his head, “How little you know of the spellsong, my very young wizard friend.”

Aerendir looked at Mathin, the lines of sorrow mixed with a kind of mad hope, a desperate purpose. “Something bittersweet, little brother, with all the flavor of loss steeped in a marinade of hopefulness.”

Siegyrd smiled a broad, knowing, smile, “As you like, brother.” And he drew the bow across the strings. The wood of the violin wept mournfully, but was accented with an airy lightness in the upper end, a delicate dance of melodies and harmonies overlapping.

Aerendir felt his strength returning, and slowly stood to his full height as the music played. As the last note lingered in the close air, he was almost himself again, and the others in the room felt lighter than they had in many months.